


Begin

by nerdy-flower (baconnegg)



Series: The Shimada Brothers Need Healing [4]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Brothers learning how to be brothers again, Canon Disabled Character, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Fluff, Family Bonding, Family Fluff, Gen, Genji Shimada is a Little Shit, Getting Together, High Genyatta content in chapter 2, Human Zenyatta, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Prequel, Tender masculinity throughout, The boys have a lot to work through and they're trying really hard, This starts off down but gets much happier, Young-old gays flirting in the last chapter heads up, Zenyatta is a little shit with more subtlety, genji-centric, good communication, healing together, so much fluff with those two like ya'll
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2019-04-08 06:35:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14099418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baconnegg/pseuds/nerdy-flower
Summary: Genji gets better and finds a new family, but he still wants his brother back, dammit.Or, Genji Shimada's Twenties: A Tragicomedy in Three Acts(A prequel to the events of Crush, starting ten years prior)





	1. Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for non-graphic descriptions of trauma and slight medical badness (no gore, just a few blood and injury mentions), gaslighting/emotional abuse (not from any main characters), death mention (again, no main characters and no gore), and extremely brief suicidality mention. TBH this starts in a rather dark place but it improves quickly

As hard as he tries, Genji can’t remember the truck hitting their car. 

He remembers everything up to that point in agonizingly crisp detail. What they ordered at the restaurant, the itchy collar of his woolen winter coat, the particular notes of disgust in his brother’s voice as he once again berated him for being irresponsible, self-centered, and careless. He was twisted around in his seat, the seatbelt stretched against his chest as he shouted insults back. He recalls a split-second, impossibly loud metallic crunch on his side and then absolutely nothing. Like someone had taken a thick marker and blacked it all out. 

The next memories are fuzzy in the extreme. Surfacing as he’s weaned off the drugs keeping him unconscious into a sluggish awareness of nothing outside the cacophonous signals of his own body. Throat raw, damp plastic sticking to him all over, and _painpainpain,_ beyond what the drugs can mute. He thrashes, someone speaks, and he sinks back under. It seems to happen over and over again. 

Finally they bring him out so gradually he can’t be sure of the passage of time. The pain is still there, endlessly retelling him that he is indeed alive and awake, not in some bizarre afterlife or fever dream. His undone mind puts things together shakily, one clumsy puzzle piece after another. A crash, that must have been it. That’s why he’s blinded by the whiteness of the room and why everything hurts so much. That’s why there’s a mass of bandages where his right knee should be. 

The nurse hustles in to sedate him after that realization, doing her best to subdue him as the next piece slides into place. Hanzo. 

Where is Hanzo? 

He tries to ask, though his voice doesn’t work well and his mouth is a mess, all sharp fragments and iron taste. The nurse is apparently fluent in raving lunatic, and calmly answers that Hanzo is fine, that he was discharged last week, and he passes into another fog as the drugs flow coldly into him. 

His injuries are severe enough that the loss of control over every single aspect of his self is complete. His mind sinks into some kind of ego-survival mode, completely disconnecting from his surroundings and his body as much as possible. Large swaths of memories are willingly let go, leaves in the breeze. He’s fed, washed, moved, tested, taken into surgery, woken up with new scars. Doctors of all kinds poke and prod and debate over him, like he’s a lab specimen. Hanzo doesn’t come. 

Tou-san’s cousins, uncles, in-laws make cursory visits. The suits, Genji used to call them, who took orders from Sojiro and left their wives and children at home. Providing him with information his addled mind can’t grasp. In this many weeks he should be released, in this many days he should be doing this and that. They talk to the doctors, mostly. He asks where Hanzo is, they tell him he ‘left.’ Left where? 

Once his more vital parts have been repaired, he’s permitted an act of anatomical sovereignty. Rather than try to repair his hopelessly cracked teeth one by one, he has the whole lot of them pulled and replaced with implants. Not that he has to worry about looks anymore, but it’d be nice to fucking chew food again. 

He’s moved to the rehabilitation floor, where there’s way too many inspirational posters and chipper physical therapists, and he lets himself think for more than a few minutes at a time. When Tou-san’s uncle returns, the oldest of the bunch and the most baldly ambitious despite his knobby joints and wheezy voice, he continually asks him where Hanzo is, making a scene and not letting him say anything else until he answers. 

“He left the country. We found airline tickets to Hawaii, but it was already too late.” The old man’s eyes flick down to Genji’s too-thin body sitting awkwardly in the wheelchair. “He did it on purpose, you know. He’s lucky we don’t have Interpol after him, but it’s not as if that would do any good for you, now.” 

From then on, on top of fighting pain, uncooperative body parts, and infections that leave him feverish and hooked up to bulky IVs, he has to argue almost daily that Hanzo never would have done that, that isn’t what happened, they must be lying, but the cousins all take the same line when they visit. _Don’t you remember, Genji? We all saw how crazy he was acting after your father died. We never expected him to snap like this. Shh, you’re not thinking straight. The CAT scan showed brain damage. Poor child, the doctors said this might happen._

Months pass without his noticing. Eventually he’s released to the dusty museum of the main Shimada estate, though he still spends most of his days going from one white sterile office to another. All the while, the men who were unwillingly subordinate to his father in life take every opportunity to needle him. _Do you even want to get better? Quit lying around and feeling sorry for yourself. Get up._

They fill his ears with news and numbers from the various goings-on of their family’s businesses that he can’t remotely put together. He graduated high school by a hair, not receiving even half the instruction that Hanzo had, and scarcely paying attention when they did include him, much to his parents’ chagrin. _Are you trying to prove your brother right? He always said you were a waste of time._

Genji wants to tell them to do whatever the hell they want and leave him out of it. But as long as he lives, he’s the head of the family in his father’s and Hanzo’s absence. That was How Things Were Done, and had been for several centuries, if their family lineage was to be believed. 

Reconstructive surgeries open him up over and over to try and piece him back together as his thoughts become more fragmented. He can’t be sure what he remembers remembering and what he’s been told. He thinks it would be so much better if he had just died. Then he could be where his parents sre, or just be nothing, scattered unconscious atoms. Anything but this half-life. 

But curiosity tugs at him relentlessly. He was the child who burned his hand on the hot stove, picked up rat snakes by the tail, and wandered off at markets and shopping centres without much worry as to where his caretakers were. Planning ahead just meant getting caught. 

At yet another check-up, while the doctor is attending another patient and his bodyguard-slash-babysitter runs to the toilet with a touch of lingering flu, he hops onto the computer and prints his own medical file without a second thought. _Printa-printa-printa_ and folded up, underneath his belt it goes. He reads it the way he used to read comics, late at night under the covers. Skimming over the complex, too-long words and finally deciphering it after cracking open his old dictionary a few times.

The scans and tests show a definite concussion, but shockingly not that much more severe than the one he received after falling headfirst off the basketball hoop in middle school gym class. No significant amnesia. No lasting encephalitis. No apparent permanent damage.

He wants to be sure. He wants the original memory, underneath all the explanations. Hanzo might have grown to hate him, but even if he wanted him dead, driving them both in front of a truck in broad daylight was illogical and just plain ineffective. He loved those crime shows, he probably could murder someone much more discreetly and get away with it, if he wanted to. 

Genji opens his laptop one sleepless night and logs into Hanzo’s email account. His older brother, for all his polish, acted like an old man when it came to technology. He used the same password for everything, only changing it when Genji hacked into his accounts to pull pranks. It hasn’t been used since several weeks after the crash, closing in on two years ago now. Genji was still unconscious at the time, and would be for many weeks afterward. One ticket to Hawaii, then California, finally landing in western Canada. 

Their mother had been born there somewhat accidentally to jet-setting parents, spending a good chunk of her childhood there before they moved back to Japan permanently. She maintained dual citizenship, and ensured her sons did too. She didn’t say much about her hometown, but she did take them once to the opposite shore in the summertime. The one family vacation where they weren’t posing for distant relatives or onlookers, she swept them into the water, laughing and hollering and even coaxing their quiet, ever-smiling father out from under the umbrella. 

“It’s good to have an out,” she would say later, with a thin smile, when Genji whined about going all the way to the embassy to renew their passports. “In case you ever need it.” 

She never explained what she meant by that, and she never got to use it for herself. Shot like a dog in the street. Though genes and a lifetime of stress were probably the real reason, Genji remains convinced his tireless efforts and lack of success in finding the bastard who broke the unspoken bloodless code caused his father’s heart attack. But maybe he just wants a better story. Senseless deaths seem so unfitting for them. 

He goes easy on the painkillers one day, not enough to induce withdrawal but enough to not be completely numb for a few hours. 

He can’t trust his memories of the accident. But he can’t forget a lifetime of leaning into his role of the good-for-nothing second son. If Hanzo had tried to kill him and succeeded, the rest of the family would have covered it up out of gratitude. They might be above brazen violence, but troublemakers occasionally disappeared. Hanamura was like a closed country of old, with its high walls and the Shimadas’ claws so deep in every pocket that they might as well be a puppet government.

It will be his only favour to them: leave so they can stop dragging him along and waiting for him to die. Let the old fucks fight over the empty throne. It was never his in the first place. 

He’s stable enough on his prosthetic leg now that he can slip into a crowd unnoticed. Their staff are well-trained and highly-paid, but his mother taught him how to lose someone while being tailed. The only stop he makes in Hanamura is to the bank, because his threats still hold weight when the poor, smartly-dressed girl doesn’t initially allow him to move so much of his personal account, withdrawing as much as he can in dollars after he makes her cry. 

Once the cab drops him off at the train station in the next prefecture, he knows he’s safe, though the adrenaline keeps him wired until he’s finally on the flight. He fears no repercussions, the Shimadas are attached to image first, and negative consequences are dealt out privately. Contacting authorities for anything might draw outside attention to where all their money comes from. Even reporting him missing or unwell would be too big a risk, and not worth their time besides. 

The checked suitcase with newly-purchased clothes goes missing by the time he lands on the West Coast. Possibly one last middle finger from the Shimadas. He shrugs it off, shouldering a backpack full of cash, photos, and prescriptions and heading out. He’s twenty-one and feels like he just grabbed the invincibility star. 

He buys a phone, a good hotel room, and replacement necessities. The rush doesn’t last long. Hanzo has either changed his name or is living completely under the radar. Or he’s moved on to somewhere else entirely. Maybe he went back to Japan, who the hell knows? It’s not like Genji was expecting to show up and find him in the phone book. Not really. 

With nothing tying him, and an instinctive urge to get as far away from Hanamura as possible, he wanders West to East, mostly by train. He offers no thanks or conversation, uninterested in giving the time of day to anyone. One day melts into the next. The nights of shouting conversations over club music, eager bed partners, and dropping stacks of money on anything he wanted are as distant as a dream. 

By the time he arrives in his mother’s birthplace, a dull little town with no trace of her in it, his savings are starting to dry up. He’s not so thick-headed to think jobs will be easy to get, looking the way he does. When his wallet is nearly empty, his fucking leg breaks and there’s not a goddamn thing he can do about it. 

But he’s always been lucky. Sitting in a gross coffee shop with his crutches beside him, he scrolls through his phone and finds an advertisement for amputee test subjects at the university. Free replacement leg in exchange for sitting through some tests? Yes, please. 

The lab looks like a doctor’s office and a machine shop had a weird baby. He sits on a plastic chair and drums his fingers on the arm, barely glancing up when the doctor walks in, until she stops short. 

“I wondered if it was you, Mr. Shimada.” Genji’s head lifts at the voice, faintly familiar, a German accent? She’s got a strong jaw, almost-white blonde hair, intelligent eyes. A perfect ten, but not immediately recognizable. 

“You probably don’t remember me,” she continues in that soft tone, taking a seat across from him and smiling sadly. “I was a consulting physician shortly after your accident. I used to specialize in combat trauma, but your injuries were similarly extensive so your family flew me in. What brought you here?” 

At that, Genji catches a flash of recollection. That kind voice, speaking quickly in terms that meant nothing to him, carefully examining his stump- “Er, an airplane?” 

She chuckles politely and carries on, starting on the list of questions on her clipboard. He breathes a sigh of relief for her tact, but shifts in embarrassment, knowing what she saw of him then and how unkempt his current appearance is getting. The feeling of nothingness inside him that happily took roost while he was at the Shimada estate makes a comeback. 

The woman- Dr. Ziegler, her nametag reads, -cautiously touches his shoulder on his way out. “I’m very glad to see that you’ve recovered, Genji.” 

He’s glad, for the kind doctor’s sake, that someone is. 

Dr. Ziegler- “Angela, please, I don’t like so much formality,” –demands a great deal more from her research subjects than a few tests. To her credit, she nudges him towards some semblance of good health, less encouraging and more enforcing. She’s tough, but he feels no need to snap back in his usual way. The occasional sullen silence isn’t engaged, and she continues sliding referrals his way with a smile. 

He doesn’t restrain himself for anyone else. Money dries up and things get desperate. He’s fired from one menial job after another. Getting hired to wash dishes and dismissed a few hours later for his attitude. He hangs around campus after seeing Angela just to use the Wi-Fi. He takes to sleeping in library carrels, passing well enough as a student, finally taking the long walk to the overnight shelter when the security guards take notice. He always sleeps on his stomach, backpack underneath him, which causes him all kinds of pain but what else can he do? 

He starts working at a bar staffed by people with worse manners than his. He’s paid in cash and develops a hatred for ninety-nine percent of the human race, which seems to be the amount of people who act the way he used to in bars. At least he wasn’t alone in his shitty behaviour. It’s enough to pay the rent at a warehouse apartment shared by one of his coworkers and thirteen others who are entertainingly terrible and rarely home. 

He avoids the worry in Angela’s eyes, feeling strangely embarrassed, like he’s let her down somehow. Even more so, he avoids the cowboy-looking and sounding man who often has appointments after him. No amount of glaring or curt answers seems to scare him off. He’s almost cartoonishly friendly and always apt to strike up waiting room conversations that go nowhere. Genji is retroactively glad none of the American tourists he slept with were this obnoxious. 

The bar abruptly gets closed for health and safety reasons. Rightfully so, but Genji’s once again without a paycheque. He tugs on his backpack and wanders the streets in the early dark of the winter. The coat he’d bought on arriving is holding up, but his clothes look like hell. God knows the rest of him isn’t any better. At least if he was still good-looking, he could start stripping or something, but he doesn’t even have that anymore. 

_You sure took me down a peg, didn’t you, anija? Didn’t even stick around to see the results, fucking coward._

He’s ended up downtown, wandering past empty stores and noisy pubs. He pulls his hood up when a cold breeze slices through him, walking by some community centre that’s all lit up. Just as he passes the door, he catches the scent of food cooking and it smells better than anything he’s ever smelled. His stomach growls so loud he swears it echoes in the empty street. 

“My goodness, you sound hungry!” 

He turns around, never as quickly as he used to despite Angela’s constant tinkering. He finds a young man in a purple and black electric wheelchair, dressed in flowy, pastel office clothes, with a shaved head bearing nine dots painted on his forehead. He has one hand on the A-frame sign he was adjusting outside the door, and the other fiddling with the blue and gold beads around his neck. “Would you like to come in? We have plenty of food.” 

“What’s the catch? I’ll join your cult if you’re offering free dinner, but I wanna know what’s up.” 

The stranger laughs, amber eyes shining. “No cults here, just meals for anyone who wants to eat.” 

The sizeable room has a kitchen on one end, with the rest lined with dingy white tables seating all manner of street kids and people that death forgot. The staff sit scattered amongst them, obviously trying to act buddy-buddy while their clean, pressed clothes make them stick out. Genji takes a plate of spaghetti and sits in the corner, his back to everyone else until he’s scarfed down the delicious, delicious pasta and goes to drop his plate in the sink. The rest of the scruffy bunch hangs around, cleaning up and chatting with the workers. 

The bald man stops him on his way out, that same gentleness in his voice. “Do you have somewhere to stay?” 

Genji nods. Rent isn’t due for another three weeks, he’ll figure something out by then. The man smiles, an air of calmness about him. “Well, take care. It’s cold out tonight.” 

He scrapes by, finding one-off gigs from sketchy online ads. He’s half-tempted to start selling drugs or something, but he definitely won’t find Hanzo in jail. At least, he hopes not. 

He makes enough for rent or food, not quite both. The centre apparently makes those meals every night, and breakfast three days a week, sometimes lunches if he’s willing to sit through pointless presentations on healthy eating or whatever. It’s enough to keep the hunger at bay and Angela off his back. He bats her questions away, insisting he’s an adult and is taking care of himself just fine. She must be so confused by him. After all, scientists never wanted their experiments to fail. 

That same young man stops to talk whenever he sees him. Always with that sweet smile, no matter how sour Genji’s attitude is. He’s free with his words, unlike the other workers who are almost plastic in their friendliness, casually offering details about himself. Genji’s nosiness gets the better of him. 

“So, what’s with the-“ Genji gestures to his forehead, leaning against the rumbling washing machine. The centre’s free laundry program is a boon to his personal hygiene that he takes full and frequent advantage of. “You a monk or something?” 

Zenyatta giggles, almost childish, and swallows his mouthful of sandwich. Why he wanted to spend his lunch break in the small back room chatting with Genji’s grubby ass, he has no idea. “Not quite. I belong to the Shambali, but I’m just a layperson. I imagine you’re familiar with my older brother?” 

He isn’t, though he’s heard of the monastery on the far side of town. A few articles fill him in on the superficial details. 

“How’d you all end up here, anyways?” Genji asks on another night, trying and failing to load the dishwasher after dinner before Zenyatta quietly takes over. 

“We had connections here, and a friend offered us his land to start over,” Zenyatta’s eyes go far away, sighing as he scratches an old stain off the lip of a cup. “After the incident in King’s Row, we couldn’t ignore the threats anymore.” 

“Why were people after you, anyway?” Genji asks when they bump into each other at the terminal, filling the long wait between Sunday buses. “You seem pretty chill, as rogue religious sects go.” 

“I appreciate your ringing endorsement,” Zenyatta replies with an arched brow, scarf lifting in the early autumn breeze as the afternoon sun warms their skin. “It was never really about us. People disagreeing with our beliefs was to be expected, but being vocal about them drew more unwanted attention than we were prepared for. But if it wasn’t us, it would have been some other group making the same demands. Bullies need victims, after all.” 

“Yeah, I guess,” Genji scratches his neck. God he needs a shave, why does his facial hair always come in like little needles? “Don’t blame you for running away from that.” 

“We didn’t run,” Zenyatta shakes his head, resolute but not irritated. “We’re still doing the same work, just with a little extra security.” His lips break on a feeble smile, white teeth peeping out. “And if anything does happen again, the police tend to arrive more quickly when they don’t have to climb a mountain.” 

Genji kicks a pebble off the curb. “Do you miss it?” 

“Very much. It was still my home. It’s difficult not to conflate happy memories with where they took place.” 

As the leaves make their colourful salute, Genji finds himself seeing Zenyatta more frequently, answering questions a little more honestly. Nothing about Hanzo or the accident, it feels like too much to share with anyone. But then, before he knows it, Zenyatta’s taken on little piece after little piece, until Genji feels like he might as well tell him everything. Secrets remind him too much of home. 

Zenyatta listens patiently as they stroll around the park one evening, swallowing every detail with only a few encouraging hums as Genji rambles. He’s surprised no one calls the cops on Zenyatta’s behalf. He must look like a psycho, trailing beside him and talking so fast that spit flies. He hasn’t been sleeping well, having essentially run out of short-term jobs or already burned bridges with anyone else who might hire him. Maybe he can leave town, but where the hell would he go? What’s he even doing? 

He’s already on edge when Zenyatta mentions forgiveness, starting on what sounds like some spiritual platitude that Genji absolutely can’t- won’t handle. Not now. There is no reason it all happened, no hope of things getting better, his life has been fucked completely sideways and there is no up from here. Anyone who thinks otherwise can’t possibly understand what he’s been through and he’ll be as bitter and angry about it as he wants, thank you very much. 

He says this, much louder and with much more venom to Zenyatta, who pauses and takes it all in with an almost blasé expression, which only spurs Genji on more. He unloads entirely, every mean-spirited thought and ounce of frustration, until he’s almost out of breath, glowering at him and daring him to say something back. 

Zenyatta seems to consider his response before speaking, head tilted slightly to one side. “Genji, may I tell you something? I think you might better understand my meaning, if I do.” 

Genji feels somewhat disarmed, but throws his hands up. Not like he has anything better to do than stand around and listen to this guy. 

“When I was fourteen,” Zenyatta continues in an impassive tone. “I was riding my bike home one night and was struck by a drunk driver. He ran over me and kept going. If the others hadn’t come looking for me, I surely would have died. 

“I was in the hospital for some time. When I was finally conscious enough to have conversations, the doctors told me my spine had been severed and I would never walk again.” Zenyatta folds his hands on his lap, the streetlamp over them flickering to life as the sun sets quickly. “I was upset, to say the least. Almost immediately, Mondatta and the others encouraged me to forgive the man who hit me and left me for dead. They said it was the only way to find peace and be grateful for what I still had. I banned them from my hospital room for three straight weeks.” 

Genji’s tongue is still. Zenyatta smile grows strained and he continues. “I’m grateful to be alive, that my injuries were not worse, and that I had people who loved and cared for me, but I refuse to be grateful for such a thoughtless, foolish decision.” Zenyatta breathes out through his nose, zipping his deep red coat closer to his chin. “I no longer waste my time hating him or wishing him ill, but I don’t forgive him. My life is significantly harder and more painful and frankly, it pisses me off. It always will.” 

Zenyatta hums in the long quiet. “Unless they finally invent wheelchairs with hoverboard capabilities. That would be neat.” 

Genji huffs a weak laugh, sufficiently sobered. He turns to walk away. “Sorry for yelling and whatever, you definitely win this one.” 

“It isn’t a competition,” Zenyatta tuts and presses a polite, surprisingly firm hand to his arm, peering up at him with those warm eyes. “I wanted you to know that I do understand how you feel, because I’ve been angry like that.” Zen slowly removes his hand from Genji’s tensed forearm. “Forgiveness is entirely up to you, but the anger isn’t sustainable.” 

Genji snorts, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, okay.” 

“Now, I’ll ask you for a little honesty in return,” Zenyatta continues, almost defiant in his tone. “How’s your living situation, really?” 

Genji bites his cheek, jamming his hands in his pockets. “Not great.” 

“I thought as much,” Zenyatta nods. “How would you like to come stay at the monastery?” 

Genji balks, but Zenyatta keeps going. “We have some beds open for those with nowhere else to go. We used to have an open-doors policy back in Nepal, but now one of us has to vouch for them.” He sighs, smiling slowly at Genji. “Which I’d be happy to do for you. Is there anything you need to get from your place?” 

“You can’t just-“ Genji trips over his words. “What if I’m actually an axe murderer or something?” 

“Nonsense, you’re far too nice to be any type of murderer.” 

“You can’t just-“ Genji’s head spins, full of static. “Why are you doing this? What do you want from me?” 

“You may not feel the same way,” Zenyatta replies, his voice purposefully even as he holds his hands out palms-up. “But I’ve come to think of you as a friend, and I want to help my friends in any way I can. You’ll have a much easier time getting back on your feet and finding your brother if you’re safe and eating regularly.” 

Genji’s stomach twists as he looks away. “Somehow I don’t think your- siblings will feel the same way.” He tugs at his coat sleeve, exposing the edge of the green dragon tattoo at his wrist. “I’m not exactly monastery material.” 

“I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised,” Zenyatta grins and it’s almost magnetic. Like the heroes in his favourite childhood TV shows. “There are caveats, of course- you’ll have to do your share of chores and adhere to certain rules. But, if you don’t mind me saying so-“ Zenyatta’s fingers find Genji’s wrist, brushing the tattoo. “I think you could use some peace in your life, at least for a night. I can help you look for another place that’s more suitable if you don’t want to stay.” 

Genji rubs his eyes, taking a shuddering breath. His body’s demands are howling shrieks in his ears, and he can’t ignore them any longer. “Yeah, okay. Just for a night.” 

And the two friends head out into the dark streets, catching a rattling old bus and finally arriving at the door of the little monastery on the edge of town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back at it again, folks! Sorry to start off on a downer, but if you've read the previous fics, you know that things work out in the end!  
> Shout out to 4Illuminati for the inspiration to write about Genji's life during their ten years apart, so here it is! The other chapters will be coming soon.  
> It's funny after they were close to their canon ages in part 3 to write 19-23-year-old Genji. He's just a baaaby, and he's, er, not in a great place as you can see. Not too much to say yet, there'll be more detail in the next two chapters.  
> Quick note: I hymned and hawed about Zenyatta's accident, because the trope of characters being disabled ~for a (plot-relevant) reason~ is tired as heck. IRL people are disabled for lots of reasons, and not everyone who's in a wheelchair is paralyzed, obviously. I went with it in the end because I wanted an analogue for Genji and Zenyatta's canon common ground. They're in similar situations for very different reasons, but they appreciate (Well, Genji grows to appreciate) having someone in their life who Gets It. All the same, feel free to let me know if I goofed.  
> Thanks for reading!


	2. Damaged

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much more positive than the last chapter, but still brief descriptions of medical badness, one slight suicidality mention, past death mentions, general mental health unwellness (and the hard work of improving it!)

Zenyatta’s typing away on his laptop at the dining room table, one of his favourite white knit shawls around his shoulders to stave off the early winter chill. Mondatta ambles up behind him, shuffling through some papers and humming. 

“Our young friend seems to be settling in well,” Mondatta comments, his attention directed out the window that looks onto the side-yard, where Genji is currently engaged in chasing and thus-far unsuccessfully catching one of their small brood of chickens. 

Zenyatta follows his gaze and chuckles as Genji tumbles into the snow, the hens flapping just out of his reach. “As I expected he would.” 

Mondatta nods, a note of concern in his voice. “Still, we’ll have to keep an eye on him. You know what they say about feeding stray cats.” 

“Do you hear yourself?” Zenyatta knits his brows together, tartness in his voice. “He’s a human being, he needs our help. And I wouldn’t bring just anyone here.” 

“I know you wouldn’t,” Mondatta’s hand is warm and heavy on his shoulder. “Don’t be upset. I trust you, I just don’t enjoy watching you pour your heart into something and ending up hurt.” 

“That’s not something you can help, dai,” Zenyatta replies and returns to typing, a bit slower. “Perhaps it is naïve of me, but I couldn’t let this one go. I’m absolutely certain that this is where he needs to be.” 

Mondatta is quiet, watching Genji finally capture one of the hens and hoist it proudly in the air before delivering it to Sita, their resident amateur veterinarian, for some frost-proofing petroleum jelly on its comb. His lips curl on a lopsided smile. “You know, if you turned that intuition of yours towards lottery numbers, you’d be a very wealthy man.” 

“Yes, pity that it only works on people, the least profitable of all ventures,” Zenyatta titters, watching the spray of snow as Genji goes tearing after another chicken. 

*** 

The relief of the monastery’s comforts– A hot shower he can get into without nearly breaking his neck, filling though meatless meals, and an impossibly comfortable bed in a mostly empty, quiet hall –comes less easily than he anticipated. His mind is still as keyed up as it was when he was leaving Hanamura, running wide open from the time he wakes up until he finally falls asleep. 

The restlessness is compounded by a few early errors. His attempt at laundry resulting in a sopping load of pink fabric that was formerly pristine white robes is bested by an incident involving a metal fork in the microwave that necessitates a fire extinguisher and a promise to pay them back with money he doesn’t know when he’ll have. 

“He’s from a rich family, right?” He hears Jyoti whispering to the others as they shuffle off to evening prayers. “I bet he’s never had to do anything for himself. We’ll just have to reverse-Cinderella him.” 

Genji’s scarred cheeks burn with shame. Assured of his uselessness, he resolves to hunt for work and housing again the next day, only for a flare-up of pain to set his nerves on fire and leave him confined to his bed. 

“Your medication doesn’t seem to be working well anymore,” Zenyatta notes as he helps Genji sit up to eat his supper in bed, though he has no appetite. “Maybe you should speak with Dr. Ziegler, there must be something they can-“ 

“Why bother?” Genji interrupts, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. He swears he can feel every single pin they screwed into his bones to hold him together, the muscles of his jaw swollen and threatening to lock up from grinding. “This isn’t- I’m beyond fixing at this point. I can’t- I can’t just do _this_ forever.” 

He lets his throbbing head droop forward, realizing that saying that sort of thing to someone in Zenyatta’s line of work is probably going to land him in an asylum or something. He can’t bring himself to care. 

“It won’t be like this forever, though it feels like it will.” Genji scoffs and Zenyatta’s fingers nudge under his chin, lifting it as though he’s made of the most delicate china until their gazes meet. Zenyatta’s eyes are as impenetrable and compassionate as always, aglow in their duality. “You have a spark inside you, Genji. It’s helped you endure everything up until now. I can still see it, and I know you have enough fuel to keep it going.” 

Genji jerks away, then winces, hissing at renewed throbbing before speaking into his lap. “What for, though?” 

A velvet-soft, long-fingered hand cups his shoulder, barely shifting his unwashed t-shirt. Zenyatta’s voice is low but steady, easy to lean on. “You still have a purpose in this life, being alive could be reason enough.” 

He receives a gentle scolding from Angela for not telling her about the flare-ups sooner after she assesses all his gait and joint issues with feather-light hands. He’s sent for acupuncture and massage, Angela scribbles notes while they try mirrored boxes and little pads that make it feel like there are ants crawling under his skin. She hoards the data he gives her like treasure, taking care to mention on his grouchier days that his answers can assist her in helping so many others. He notes the dark circles under her smudged-off concealer and decides there’s worse ways to spend his time. 

Nothing improves quickly. The new meds burn a hole in his stomach. Physical therapy is more tiring than he remembers. Mondatta palms a bus pass into his hand while he’s waiting for his disability support paperwork to go through, like that’s not supposed to make him feel like a leech. He gets marginally better at cooking and cleaning under the careful tutelage of the others, but he still looks at himself and sees proof of his worst doubts. Too easily exhausted, too slow, and too mediocre for someone his age. The monks’ probably-plastered-on smiles remind him of the elder Shimadas smirking when he spoke at meals. 

Zenyatta is nothing if not determined, Genji has to give him that. The idea of counselling makes his eyes almost roll out of his head, but meditating isn’t so bad. Though it doesn’t work straight away, Zenyatta’s light voice encourages an unripe patience in him. They take tea afterwards in the secure quiet of the courtyard, and Genji soon finds it a little easier to share Zenyatta’s sympathetic ear. 

He feels absurd when he rambles about the way his thoughts spin on and on without stopping, only blotted out by pain or unconsciousness, but Zenyatta merely nods thoughtfully. “It’s not uncommon. People who experience trauma under the age of twenty-five can develop attention and dissociation issues. Constant cortisol is a concentration killer.” 

“Say that five times fast,” Genji snickers and blows across the top of his mug, dispersing the steam. “So does every kid in a car crash end up with scrambled brains, or did I pull the lucky number?” 

Zenyatta hums curiously. “Did you ever struggle with controlling your thoughts before the accident?” 

“No, everything was fine. I was-“ Genji pauses, trying to remember the last time he could think clearly without aid. Being drunk for most of his late teens doesn’t help. Before their father’s funeral, before he and Hanzo moved from distantly bitter to actively vicious- no, even earlier. Before he was led into his father’s office after school and informed his mother had been killed, before he’d laid raw and awake that night thinking about her new carton of cigarettes over and over and over- “Maybe not, actually.” 

Zenyatta nods and stays quiet, offering space instead of instant comfort. Genji’s words rush to fill the emptiness before he can stop them. “Why did I get stuck like this? Why did Hanzo get to be normal?” 

Zenyatta’s expression turns heartsick at that. “You’re not abnormal, you’re hurting-“ Genji clicks his tongue in distaste and Zenyatta continues as if he didn’t hear it. “-And we don’t know how it affected him. I can’t say for sure, but I don’t think he left after the accident because he quite fancied a holiday abroad.” 

Genji snorts, bracing his elbow on his good knee and pressing his cracked lips to his knuckles. “Maybe, I mean before- like, he went right back to class the week after our mom’s funeral. Like nothing was wrong. I barely saw him cry.” 

Zenyatta takes a long, contemplative gulp of his tea and casts his eyes off in the distance, watching a few blackbirds hunt for seeds amidst the long grass. “Feel free to tell me I’m completely off, but if your relatives’ expectations were so high that they barked orders at you in your hospital bed, I can only guess at their standards for your healthy and able brother.” 

“I-“ Genji’s tongue fumbles. He rakes his fingers through his recently clipped black hair and stares at the greenless dirt through the wooden boards. “I don’t know, honestly.” 

Summer comes, warm and humid. Genji finds himself working in the yards when his joints will allow it; tilling the garden, chopping wood, and assisting the wide mountain of a man that is Mondatta’s bodyguard when the roof needs repairing. The man passes him glass-bottled sodas and tells long, quixotic stories that bring a small grin to his face as they tan in the sun. He regrets telling Reinhardt that his father used to be quite the storyteller too, because the one-armed hug he gets for that damn near cracks his ribs. 

Genji starts making Zenyatta’s lunch in the mornings as the searing nerve pains become less and less frequent, the younger man so grateful as zips off with his heavy bag and brightly-coloured neatly-ironed outfits. After talkative visits with Angela, he even takes up the waiting room cowboy’s thirtieth offer of “Hah! You’re pretty funny, Shimada-san. What d’you like to do for fun?” He spends a little less time hiding away and answers the other monks’ beckons to join them a little more often. Running errands, folding pamphlets promoting clean water and freedom, and a dozen other daily mundanities. The Shambali surprise him in being both more human than and exactly as devout as they portray themselves to be. 

“Zen, I have to ask,” Genji says one Sunday afternoon in the garden, wiping the sweat from his brow with the inside of his tank top. “How did Mondatta ever convince you to follow him up a mountain? I wouldn’t even wear my brother’s hand-me-downs.” 

Zenyatta’s tinkling laugh is cut off by a grunt as he finally frees a large stone from the dirt around the carrots. “I suppose you could say I was his first student. We would stay up at night reading and talking philosophy- well, him talking and me trying to keep up, I was quite young still –before he joined the peace movements in university. When our grandmother passed away, he was my only guardian so it was somewhat inevitable.” He pauses to pick some dirt from beneath his carefully filed fingernails. “Our choices and desires are different, but our beliefs and experiences of the world have remained the same. So it is with my brothers and sisters in the Iris, as well. Plus, they don’t mother-hen me nearly as much as he does.” 

Genji chuckles, humming and reaching to pull a weed before Zenyatta stops him. “Oh, not the dandelions, I’m quite fond of them. They’re such a lovely colour and it’s cute how they fold up at night.” 

Genji glances at him sideways, a smirk curving his scarred lips. “I’m not so sure about the Iris, but I’m positive it created you.” 

Zenyatta’s sepia cheeks flush in an extremely endearing way as he waves a flustered hand and returns to digging. “A bit mistaken on the theology, but very kind of you, all the same.” 

On returning from one of his chips-and-chats with McCree, he joins the monastery’s residents as they retire to a small common room to watch the one television in their possession. Genji supposes that one of their tenets is not arguing over the remote, as it’s always a relaxing time. He leans against a far wall, belly full and eyes drooping. Maybe an early night wouldn’t be so bad- 

The news report cuts into his ear, a papery male voice reading out a breaking news headline. A body had been found in a river a few cities away. Police were searching for next of kin. They didn’t specify a cause of death, but evidence found on the body indicated the person was a Japanese national- 

Genji’s mind goes full static, ringing in his ears like microphone feedback. He doesn’t realize he’s bolted from the room until he’s already loping down the hall. He runs, out the back door, past their property line, into the edge of the large, wooded conservation area that borders them. He trips on a root and eats dirt, cursing and unable to get his feet under him. Finally scrabbling behind a boulder and pressing his back hard against the rock, tapping on the cracked screen of his phone with increasing impatience. 

“Come on, come on, come on-“ The article finally loads, with the same details as the news report. Dead, in the river, likely Japanese due to unidentified documents found on their person, female aged forty to- 

The phone slips from his hands, dully hitting the ground. He draws his knees up and tries to breathe. It’s not him, it’s not him- 

But what if it is next time? 

What if he’s already gone, and no one’s found him? 

Genji’s combed every recent John Doe case with a fervour, scrolling through his phone late at night and wincing at post-mortem photos. He hasn’t found anyone resembling Hanzo. Not yet. 

He presses his hands hard over his eyes, nails digging into his forehead, his brain feeling like a TV with all the channels playing at once, just noise. A stinging pain burns from a gash on his leg. It feels like there’s gravel in it. The emptiness swallows him, drowning him with every doubt and question and failure, all of it feeling too true and too much. Too much. 

_He did it on purpose, you know._

God, if only he could be anyone else. Whatever problems other people had, he wanted those ones. Anything but this. Anyone but him. Just for a day. Just long enough for his head to fucking stop, long enough for him to forget everything for a little while. 

He hears the familiar _vrrrrrhm_ of Zen’s electric wheelchair coming up beside him. Embarrassment takes over temporarily, scalding his cheeks and throat. He says nothing, feeling like a little kid again. Hiding with scraped knees and teary eyes in his mother’s gardens, simultaneously wanting to be left out there all night and to be found and carried inside. 

Zenyatta’s voice is too careful. “Genji, are you alright?” 

He nods tightly, finding his voice in the blue twilight. “It- wasn’t him. But I thought- I just don’t know where he is, you know?” Zenyatta rubs his shoulder and it feels almost painful. Genji forcefully breathes out, trying to maintain whatever dignity he has left. “I just- I want to know if he’s alive. If he’s alive, then I can ask him what happened and punch him in his stupid face and know that he’s- okay.” A painful swallow, thick with saliva. “He’s all I’ve got left, I need to know if he’s okay.” 

Zenyatta lets out a forlorn sigh, his tone so compassionate and his touch so gentle. “Of course, poor little sparrow.” 

Genji freezes. He’s never mentioned it, so Zenyatta couldn’t have known- 

It does him in anyway. He practically collapses against Zenyatta’s knees, the emotion rushing up and over him before he can escape it. He cries like a little kid lost in a shopping centre, fully convinced they’ll never see their mom or stuffed toy ever again. Sobbing so hard he nearly gags, weeping until his eyes are dry and his nose is raw, shaking all over. All the while, Zenyatta holds him fast, rubbing his back in slow circles as Genji heaves. He wipes his face on his arm when he’s finally done, unable to look up. 

“That cut looks painful.” 

Genji shakes his head, voice all reedy. “S’fine, think I wrecked my leg, though.” 

“I thought you might have when I saw you fall,” his forearm crutches are pushed into his vision. “You can call Dr. Ziegler tomorrow. Come inside and rest, it’s awfully chilly out here.” 

Genji gingerly pushes himself up, hobbling behind Zen as they traverse the unkempt field, fresh blood trickling into his sock. “They probably think I’ve lost my fucking mind.” 

“Not at all,” Zenyatta offers him a tiny smile. “And they won’t mention it. We’ve all suffered our own pains in life.” 

That doesn’t ease the knot in Genji’s stomach, but luckily they don’t encounter anyone on the way to the hall of cots. Zenyatta leaves and returns with a first aid kit and a glass of water, encouraging Genji to drink up before wordlessly cleaning his wound. 

Genji feels completely wrung out, headache pounding and muscles jumping. He lies down and rolls over with barely a “thanks,” burying his head in his arms and waiting for the temporary nothing of sleep. He thinks Zenyatta’s left, until the covers are pulled over him and a tender hand briefly ruffles his hair. 

The wheels hum against the wood as they retreat into the corridor, the light clicking off shortly after. Fresh, hot tears spill down Genji’s cheeks in the dark room. He feels so alone, and so ashamed for feeling that way when the Shambali are doing so much for him, all the while he gives nothing of value in return. He spirals out into self-pity, feeling worse and worse until he finally nods off. 

He cleans up and pays a visit to Angela the next day, covering the reason for his fall with prattle and jibes, failing to clear the disbelief from her eyes. She’s able to temporarily fix the damaged joints, noting that he can have the next prototype she gets while his preferred limb is properly repaired, urging him to take it easy. 

“I will definitely follow every single instruction you just gave me and not deviate in the slightest when I get lazy or forgetful,” Genji nods emphatically, grinning all the while. “As per my spotless track record.” 

Angela sighs and shakes her head, pausing as Genji zips up his jacket to leave. He’s mid-step when she pulls him into a quick half-hug. Her smile slips for a moment into something more open and sweet than the distracted quirks of her lips at his jokes. “You’ve been doing so well, I’m proud of you.”

Genji shrugs, his smile far away. “Gotta give you something to write about. I’m the star of your thesis, after all.” 

That night, he dreams about being held again. Not by any particular person- definitely not by Angela, that would be it for their coffee dates if his sleeping brain pulled that on him. Just strong, anonymous arms surrounding him and soft skin beneath his cheek, sometimes the distant sound of restful breathing and a barely-perceptible pulse. Completely non-sexual, which is somehow more strange. Craving sex after years without is understandable. Craving- what, a hug? -is beyond pathetic. 

But as with everything else he doesn’t want to think about, it takes root in his brain and becomes a fixation. He tries to rationalize it. Maybe they were supposed to be wet dreams and his meds are messing with his libido. In his teens, he’d almost preferred girls simply for the reason that they- at least, the ones he slept with –liked sticking around for the afterglow whenever possible. Guys always had somewhere to be after they came. Curled up in bed in the college apartments their parents were paying for, warm bodies brushing and giggling beneath the sheets, enjoying all of each other without the urgency- yeah, that was what he missed. 

He had stayed over whenever he could, regardless of the trouble that came when he got home. He relished how they told him he was different, more sensitive, not like all those other boys. That was sometimes followed up with requests to see him again. He wasn’t sure how many hearts he actually broke, and how many were just after his name. He never stuck around to find out, and ruthlessly blocked the numbers of anyone who showed too much interest. 

A relatively pain-free week lets him indulge in a few (too many) drinks during fifty-cent pool. “Do you ever feel like there’s nothing valuable inside you? Like you’re just a cheap rip-off of better people?” 

McCree’s head twitches up briefly. He goes back to lining up a shot between his metal fingers, hissing a curse when one striped ball stops just short of the hole. “Oh, god yeah. Still do, some days. But I try to remind myself it ain’t true.” 

“How can you be sure it isn’t?” Genji leans over the table, arms feeling heavy. “Eightball, corner pocket.” A hard strike, a few clinks, and the black ball bounces off the side and clanks onto the floor. “Goddammit.” 

“You really oughta see an eye doctor,” McCree stoops to pick it up. “Your depth perception is kinda shit.” 

“And you have a dumb haircut, but I wasn’t going to say anything.” Genji laughs weakly as McCree lightly punches him in the arm. 

The other man hums as he squeaks the chalk against the tip of his cue stick, eyes lowered in the light of the yellow lamp hanging precariously over their table. “As for your question, I’ve never met someone completely worthless. Even the worst people had somethin’ to ‘em. So unless I’m from Mars, I can’t be any different.” He stops to take a swig of his whiskey, crunching on a barely-there ice cube. “Ain’t all that poetic, but it gets me to the next day.” 

Glasses do end up helping (“Hold up, your vision was how bad and I let you drive here?” “Well that’s on you, now isn’t it?”), letting him read without headaches and actually research the words that stick to him too easily. Understanding them instead of fleeing from them. His twenty-sixth birthday comes around and that reminder- as pleasant as it is with cake, a card signed by everyone, and a necklace of twenty-seven deep brown beads from Zen –leaves him hungry. Answers and stillness might not come easily or ever, but he wants a future. Something to work towards besides surviving. 

He almost doesn’t tell Zenyatta when he snags a glossy course calendar on his way out of Angela’s lab and stays up too late dog-earing the pages. He almost expects to be laughed at. The other Shambali loved to tease Zen whenever he won at Scrabble or went on one of his adorable tangents. Their little keener, they called him, pinching his cheeks until he frowned. Skipped three grades, still had awards tucked in with Mondatta’s keepsakes, nothing like Genji’s disastrous academic record. He doesn’t even know what he’s good at, he never made the effort to find out. Didn’t have to, the teachers passed him out of moderate fear for their jobs and parties were way more interesting than studying. But he wants to learn, to do something worthwhile with his life and not be so empty-headed all the time. 

“That’s the last word I’d use to describe you,” Zenyatta smiles, the long, lavender sleeves of his blouse sliding down as he gestures. Their legs dangle off the back porch, hot cups of chiya warming their hands as winter makes a last stand in a fine morning frost over the grass. “The university here has a splendid accessibility department. You’d be able to attend part-time without much trouble.” 

“You don’t think it’s foolish?” Genji drinks deeply, quietly cursing the addiction the monks had unwittingly foisted upon him. “I don’t really know what I want to do.” 

“Then you’ll fit in exceptionally well with your fellow students,” Zen replies, grin turning mischievous and making Genji huff a laugh. 

“I’ll find one of those on-campus jobs, too. Maybe I can move into the dorms, or an apartment? I don’t want to keep mooching-“ 

He pauses at Zenyatta’s hand on his upper arm, his gaze kind and wistful. “One thing at a time, little sparrow. This is your home now, no one’s in a hurry for you to leave.” 

The spring and summer are busy with paperwork and checklists. Angela is happy to lend a hand and let him know which faculty to avoid if possible. He even tests out of a few simpler classes, much to his surprise. The nerves don’t kick in until he’s hanging onto the strap on the seven-fifteen bus to orientation, suddenly remembering how mean-spirited and exclusionary his peers were during his brief attendance at university. It’s not as if he’s going to find friends, most of the kids in his classes will probably think he’s a fossil, but he isn’t sure how long he can tolerate complete social leprosy. And if he doesn’t stick with this, it’ll just be another disappointment- 

His phone dings in his pocket, stirring him. 

**ZT** : Good luck today!! We’re all cheering for you ٩(^ᴗ^)۶ ☆ﾟ.*･｡ﾟ 

His smile makes his cheeks ache. He slips his headphones in and finds a comfortable space amongst the hum and crush of the other passengers. 

Though he’s only in three classes and has to take proctored exams when his body and mind conspire to keep him at home, his first semester passes in a blur. He has a structure, a life outside the peaceable, cloistered walls of the monastery. It feels like when he first relearned to run with his prosthetic leg. The winter holidays feel deserved, instead of another pointless pause. He bows his head at evening prayers after spending New Year’s with McCree and the others, sitting at the back and losing himself in the rhythm of their chants. He usually centres himself or spares some thoughts for his parents, in case their ghosts are listening. 

Hanzo should be turning thirty today, Genji hopes more than anything that he is. 

He’s not ready to leave the Shambali’s protective circle just yet, but he does start looking for part-time work again. Partly because the cost of textbooks makes him retch, and partly because he feels like he has a chance again. 

“Oh wow, it actually worked!” Hana claps after helping him up from where he was bent over her tub, fresh pink streaks gleaming in her hair. “I was scared that you’d come out looking like a yellow highlighter!” 

It isn’t quite the fluorescent shade he wore as a teen, but it’s bright enough to surprise Zenyatta when he finds him washing dishes. He pulls a stool up to the counter and sits down beside him to dry, as has become their routine. “So, what brought this on?” 

Genji snickers, keeping his eyes on the sky-blue mug he’s toweling off. “Not my most employable decision, I know. But I thought I’d try it again. It helps me- look in the mirror and see myself a little more easily, that’s all.” 

“Oh, plenty of people have dyed hair now, I wouldn’t worry,” Zenyatta sends a smile his way. “It suits you.” 

Genji catches himself on a grin, leaning closer as his glasses slide down his nose. “You think so? It doesn’t look childish?” 

“Not at all.” Zenyatta wipes the suds from his hand on the dishtowel lacross his lap before reaching out and tousling one of Genji’s Kelly green locks. “It’s just as vibrant as you are, I love it!” 

All at once, the orange glow of the kitchen light catches Zenyatta’s features just so, drawing attention to the sincere affection of his lips, the crinkle of his eyes, and the relaxed set of his broad shoulders as he diligently scrubs sauce from a serving spoon, sending a flicker of electricity that he’s definitely too old for straight through Genji’s heart. Zenyatta carries on, humming and rinsing beige ceramic plates, completely unaware of Genji’s rapid realization that he has a Serious Problem. 

Everything he evaded in his youth comes for him, his gestures turn awkward and all the songs make too much sense. There’s no possible way- Surely, Zenyatta sees him as- Well, not beneath him, he’s too good-natured to see anyone that way. But he’s so- intelligent, generous, loving beyond measure –the complete opposite of him. He knows every stupid, sordid detail of his life. Genji is already too much, relies on Zenyatta too often as a friend. He’d have to be a masochist to take that on as a partner. 

But it’s hardly easy to ignore. Their lives are intertwined in a way Genji had never thought possible. Zenyatta cares for him as if he’s family, raised him from his lowest, and kindly set him straight as needed, only requesting Genji’s presence, his attention, and the occasional use of his hands in return. He offers his serene, gorgeous smile without hesitating, laughs with and sometimes at him, trusts him easily. Days spent together are full, wonderful, and often easier. Humble as he is, in Genji’s mind, Zenyatta is without equal. 

Even talking his way into a reception job, of all things- no small task, but he saw the sign at the mall and went for it, the spa manager being surprisingly amenable to his charms and his ability to run a few spreadsheets –doesn’t keep him occupied for long. Because then Zenyatta is _so proud_ of him in that full, silvery voice of his and it is an order of magnitude more than he can handle. 

Summer arrives and he plans to move out. He has to learn how to depend on himself, ands who he is when no one else is around. His friends send him postings and the monks kindly act as the very best rental reference. He feels flush with the responsibility of it all, strangely exhilarated instead of frazzled. 

He passes by the courtyard door on his way back from the showers one afternoon, spotting Zenyatta amongst the rosebushes, clipping the buds that had turned brown in the June heat. He’s stripped his shirt, sweat rolling down reddish-brown shoulders to a slender waist, the finely tuned muscles of his arms flexing in the bright sunlight as he stretches- 

“Genji?” 

He doesn’t leap a foot in the air, but he does yelp slightly, immediately composing himself and forcing a smile for Ditya. The stout, nearly-forty woman studies him with a mix of confusion and concern in her grey eyes. “Are you alright, dear? I didn’t mean to startle you.” 

“I’m fine! You just caught me lost in thought, that’s all,” Genji rubs his neck, wholly failing at appearing casual. “Did you need something?” 

“I was wondering if you’d mind holding the light for me,” she hands him a flashlight with a sigh, readjusting her grip on the heavy toolkit. “The kitchen sink’s leaking again. I think it’s the tailpiece this time.” 

“But of course! I am ever at your service,” Genji pulls a over-dramatic bow, accepting her amused swats with a grin and following her down the hall, unaware of the eyes on his back. 

Zenyatta’s in the garden again when Genji comes to tell him about the apartment. They always find each other near the close of the day, now busy enough to actually have conflicting schedules, which is both disappointing and relieving. 

“How wonderful!” Zenyatta exclaims, nearly dropping the watering can. “When do you move in?” 

“A month and two days,” Genji drops cross-legged into the dirt, his white t-shirt a little damp from the stuffy bus ride home. Classes are still in session for a part-timer like him, which is a drag, but the sun is setting prettily behind their walls and the temperature is dropping as the no-see-ums come out and the sky washes orange. “It doesn’t feel real.” 

“Agreed,” Zenyatta’s blithe smile softens momentarily. “It will in time. I imagine you’re excited to host your first party in your very own home?” 

Zen giggles adorably at Genji’s enthusiastic nod, making him ache as his heart rears up eagerly in his chest. “I’ll have to pick out a suitable housewarming present for you. What do you need?” 

Genji scoffs and leans back on his hands, picking at the grass. “I should get you the present. I wouldn’t be doing any of this without you.” 

“Don’t discredit yourself,” Zenyatta gestures his way, barely reproachful. “You’re the one who did the work, I merely encouraged you. Perhaps very well, but still.” 

“I’m serious though,” Genji half-laughs, flicking a small slug from his finger and not looking up, the sweetness stinging in his chest. “I’m a different man because of you. If nothing else, you deserve my gratitude, so thank you, for your friendship. I mean it.” 

The silence goes on for a moment too long and Genji looks up, surprised to find Zenyatta looking mildly upset, fingers tight on the metal handle of the watering can. “Er, what’s wrong?” 

Zenyatta sighs and turns to face him properly, his expression furrowed. “Genji, there’s something I need to tell you.” 

Genji nods, though bile bubbles in his stomach as Zenyatta scratches the long column of his throat. “The truth is, I’ve- developed more significant feelings for you than just friendship.” He swallows audibly, fidgeting all the while. “I wasn’t going to tell you because I didn’t wish to make you feel uncomfortable, but Mondatta insisted- Well, never mind that.” Zenyatta turns around and anxiously waters a plot of carnations. “I sincerely hope we can still be friends, you’re still very dear to me. But I’ll completely understand if you would like some space.” 

Genji’s eyebrows leap up to his hairline as his ability to speak complete flatlines. Zenyatta visibly bites his lip, and Genji suddenly remembers that he’s got a couple years on him. “I apologize for the inopportune moment. I hope I haven’t spoiled your good-news day.” 

“Zenyatta,” Genji’s tongue feels thick in his mouth. “I feel the same way.” 

Zen’s head snaps back around as he lets the rest of the water soak the pink flowers. “Pardon?” 

“I’ve also- how did you put it?” Genji grins wide, baring his ceramic teeth in absolute glee as a fireworks display goes off in his head. He purposefully affects Zenyatta’s conspicuously academic speech pattern. “Developed more significant feelings for you, for some time, now.” 

“Oh,” Zenyatta begins to smile again, cheeks aflush barely hiding it behind his fist. “Well, you certainly did a better job of hiding it than I did!” He laughs breathlessly, setting the watering can aside and taking Genji’s hand, clasping it with some measure of confidence. “So. Here we are.” 

“Here we are,” Genji echoes, looking around to ensure they’re alone. He pulls himself onto his knees, resting his elbows on the arms of Zenyatta’s wheelchair while also trying to give him space, his eyes held on soft amber ones as he breaks out his most flirtatious tone. “May I kiss you?” 

Zenyatta’s sprightly chuckle is the best thing Genji’s ever heard. His smile turns sly as he leans forward. “You may.” 

It’s only a dry brush of lips at first, but Zen feels so soft and sensual against his mouth and Genji is so, so relieved he hasn’t completely forgotten how to do this. They tilt their heads, deepening the kiss as their hands intertwine on Zenyatta’s lap. The overgrown flowers and shrubs shield them somewhat as they forget themselves. The embers in his chest are fanned into an enormous bonfire, and Genji happily lets himself fall. 

*** 

“You know, Zenyatta,” Mondatta pauses as he passes through the common room, his brother stretched out on the floor and nose-deep in a well-thumbed copy of ‘Hogfather,’ feet pointed towards the open door as he enjoys the warm breeze. “The other day, I couldn’t help but notice an odd bruise on Genji’s neck. I don’t suppose you know how it got there?” 

“Hm, how peculiar,” Zenyatta replies without looking up, flipping to the next page. “Perhaps you should ask Reinhardt about it. He seems to injure himself there rather frequently.” 

Mondatta is silent for a moment, before bending and pinching Zen’s cheek sharply between his fingers, tugging hard. “Ow ow ow! Let go, you’re such a bully!” 

Mondatta releases him with a smirk. “I take it there will be no more pining, then?” 

“Not a bit,” Zenyatta replies, grinning immediately and rubbing his cheek. Not even frowning when Mondatta smooths his hand affectionately over the recently-shorn fuzz on his head, beaming down at him with pride. 

“Glad to hear it, little star.”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clarity re: Mondatta and Reinhardt's relationship: The Shambali have no vows or prohibition on any kind of consensual sexuality. Most of the monks are single out of commitment to their work, but Mondatta is happily and lovingly partnered. However, he keeps his private life Extremely Private, both for safety reasons and to keep unnecessary interest in his personal life from interfering with his work. Reinhardt is understanding and they make it work with a lot of love, respect, and duty.  
> Does this stop Zenyatta from giving his big brother a hard time? Not a chance :D 
> 
> Related: I have many, many extraneous headcanons about the Shambali. They're a sweet mishmash of a found family who love Zen and Genji, and each other very dearly. Sita is about Genji's age and is a newer addition to the order. Jyoti was a classmate of Mondatta's in university and manages their donations in the background. Ditya is Mondatta's right-hand woman, confidant, and she's taken a vow of poverty but that doesn't mean she gets paid enough to deal with this. She's something of a substitute maternal figure to Zen and eventually Genji as well. 
> 
> Zen's advice to Genji is based in reality (what up my social work peeps) but should be taken with a grain of salt. Just because I'm writing fic instead of going to therapy doesn't mean you should follow my example :'D  
> Thanks again for reading! Take three guesses at who shows up next chapter, the first two don't count ;).


	3. Found

“I think that does it,” Genji sets the dish soap beside the sink, wadding up several dollar store bags and tucking them into a drawer on his way out. “There’s probably something I forgot, but I’m sure I’ll find out before long.” 

“There always is,” Zenyatta smiles from his perch on the edge of Genji’s bed. “Was the checklist I sent helpful?” 

“Oh definitely,” Genji plops down beside him, planting an affectionate smooch on his cheek and falling backwards onto the mattress, both of them springing up slightly. A worn-out sigh heaves out of him. “Sorry about the stairs. I promise the next place I move won’t require performing acrobatics to get into it.”

“Hardly your fault,” Zen chuckles, straightening the shade of the table lamp he’d just set up. “Hopefully I’ll find a place that we can both easily get into, eventually.” His mouth pulls to one side, eyes narrowed. “It’s not like most of the population will age into requiring a mobility aid or need to carry heavy groceries or use a stroller or anything.” 

Genji cackles, half-giddy and half-commiserative. “Awh, I love your bitter and twisted side.” 

“Hush,” Zenyatta tuts, threading their fingers together. 

Genji hums and brings their joined hands to his lips, kissing delicate fingers. The apartment is pretty small, and less repaired than the landlord had promised, though he’d at least installed grab bars in the bathroom. Cracked plaster, aging tile, a couple outlets didn’t work. The kitchen is more of a corner of the living room, currently flooded with empty boxes and covered in dust from Lena and Emily hauling and assembling the flatpacked and thrifted furniture. The couch is a small but comfortable donation from Lúcio’s basement. The bedroom only has a partial wall shielding it from the main space, but it’s all his. Less square footage than his quarters back in Hanamura, but he’s the one paying for it, he’s going to have it all to himself whenever he wants, and he’s going to fill it with groceries, as soon as the generous donations from the Shambali run out. Which might not be for two months, at least. 

The graze of knuckles against his cheek rouses him from his thoughts. Blinking a bit, his glasses long sweat-stained and tucked into his backpack, he meets Zen’s fuzzy, tender gaze. “You’ve been smiling more often. It’s so nice to see you so happy.” 

Genji feels his cheeks burn and he glances away, scoffing and sitting up on his elbows. His eyes shut for a moment as Zen’s hand tangles in his freshly touched-up roots, humming at the affectionate scratches against his stained scalp and the comforting heat of their closeness. The brief mid-autumn heatwave has been disrupted by a cold front, bringing light, chilling rain that pitter-patters against the window casing, the only thing louder than their breathing in the yet-undecorated room. 

Genji’s eyes slide open as Zen’s fingers trail down his faintly stubbled jaw, grinning again. “So are we breaking this bed in, or what?” 

Zenyatta laughs at him, high and hearty, and pushes him backwards with a heavy palm against his chest. 

Winter passes quickly, with its early dark and lengthy to-do lists. Genji studies and tends to his little flat, learning the many annoyances of apartment living while still savoring simple chores before the shine wears off. It’s more of a breakfast nook and homework bunk, as he spends nearly all his evenings with his friends and Zenyatta, and his days in lectures, labs, or politely flirting with customers. His thoughts manage to be fuller and quieter simultaneously, leading to easier, snoring nights when he finally does flop into bed, either his own or Zen’s. 

Though he tries to spend them surrounded by people, New Year’s and his birthday bring rushes of melancholy. More frequent Wi-Fi access hasn’t brought him any closer to finding his brother. Conspiracy theories clamour for attention in his mind like schlocky TV programmes, but he won’t permit himself to believe anything the Shimadas told him. Actively refusing to give them any more inches than they’ve already taken from him, and honestly, not feeling all that much stronger for it. 

Zen senses his blues and wraps his arms around him when they’re alone, letting him drink in as much comfort as he needs. Genji does his best to be the attentive partner he idealizes for himself, fumbling but determined as his love for Zenyatta inspires a particular sense of- duty, he supposes, maybe service is a better word. Whatever it is, it would have sent his younger, stupider self running and screaming. 

He takes to modelling for the campus figure drawing classes in the spring, wanting to save up, take Zenyatta some place really nice, or at least buy him a decent birthday present. Plus, getting paid to be naked feels like coming full circle. He nearly laughs himself off the stand when one student says, inadvertently loud during a quiet moment, “Finally! Good scar references!” 

Small victories, he’s learned to appreciate them. 

Like when the snow melts, and he’s able to get around way easier on his crutch days (thank you, contact dermatitis, for rendering a perfectly functional prosthesis totally unwearable for no discernable reason). During the winter-spring semester break, he slips on a fresh gel liner and goes for a wander after helping Hana pack and label perk shipments for her most recent charity stream. He ends up hungry and searching for food, running across a small deli-type place in the quirky, student-dense section of the old downtown. 

Genji does his level best to make the statuesque, surly cashier with the long black ponytail smile, and fails miserably. He’s making a last-ditch attempt while she’s ringing him up, when a slouching figure steps out of the storage room door behind her. Distinctly different haircut, full facial hair, more bulk on his frame, heavy bags beneath his eyes, and silver piercings of all things, but Genji recognizes him immediately. 

And judging by the way his pupils turn to slits in recognition and fear, Hanzo isn’t any slower. 

The cashier flicks her eyes between them as they stare. Breath burns in Genji’s chest, forgotten as a thousand questions scream for attention at once, blotting out everything else with white hot noise. 

Hanzo flinches like he’s going to bolt and Genji abruptly reaches across the counter, grabbing his wrist tight enough that his chipped-polish nails bite into his brother’s skin. “[Don’t you _dare_.]” 

Genji feels them both shaking before Hanzo quickly blocks the woman’s slow, calculated reach for the large bread knife. “No, Amélie, it’s- fine.” 

He spares a glance in Genji’s direction as his grip slackens, speaking in a low, rough tone. “A moment, please.” 

Genji’s so stunned at finally hearing his brother’s voice again- he’d nearly forgotten what it sounded like -that he lets Hanzo retreat to the back room. The cashier- Amélie follows him, whispering too loudly. “You want I should call the cops?” 

“No, no, it’s- a family emergency.” Hanzo’s voice cracks and he returns. Crisp logo-embossed apron exchanged for a high-collared blue jacket. “Please, call Karim and apologize for me-“ 

“I’ll clock you out later,” Amélie waves him off, fixing Genji with a stare of deep-seated confusion. “Go.” 

Hanzo nods, and then looks at Genji with weak eyes as he comes around the counter. “Come with me- my apartment’s close. We can talk there.” 

Genji’s higher faculties are still recalibrating, so he follows dumbly behind his brother, barely able to keep up as he hurries out the door and down the sidewalk. Not unlike when he was a toddler, persistently following Hanzo wherever he went. 

Hanzo doesn’t look back at him when they reach the basement unit, shuffling down a set of concrete stairs leading under an old barber shop. The apartment is much like his own, though slightly bigger and with grey concrete instead of dingy white drywall. However long Hanzo’s lived here, he hasn’t bothered acquiring more than the bare essentials, some weights and a TV. It’s clean enough but lived in, apparently just by him judging by the bags of sugary snacks on the floor by the couch. 

Hanzo mechanically removes his jacket and hangs it on a hook, turning and standing by the wall. He nods after a moment of intense silence. “Go on.” 

“Go on?!” Genji sputters, mildly hysterical as his mind comes together. “You haven’t seen me in ten years and that’s all you have to say?” 

Hanzo tenses up, still avoiding Genji’s gaze. “I’m sure you have much to ask.” 

“Yeah, no kidding!” Genji drags a hand over his face, trying to get a hold of himself. “Here’s a starter- where the hell have you _been_?” 

“A few different towns, nowhere important.” 

“That’s not what I-!” Genji cuts himself off, tasting bile on his tongue. “Was it on purpose?” 

“What?” 

“The crash! Did you-“ 

“Of course not!” A flare of scorching anger, much more recognizable, flickers across Hanzo’s face. “Why the hell would I do something like that?” 

“They told me you did.” Silence. “I didn’t believe them- well, not after a while.” 

“I’m-“ Hanzo swallows, his throat bobbing with it as he covers his mouth with his fist. “I didn’t know they would- I’m sorry-” 

“Why’d you leave?” Genji’s words slur together, his heart pounding in his ears.

Hanzo’s expression is stricken, though his eyes are still burning. “How could I not? After what I did to you-!” 

“You just said it wasn’t on purpose!” 

“That doesn’t matter!” Hanzo quietly roars, waving a hand in his brother’s direction. “If I hadn’t been so careless- Genji, look at yourself! I’ve ruined your life! I should be in jail!” 

“That’s why?” Genji’s voice creaks out. “Because you felt guilty? You left, for ten years, instead of waiting until I woke up and just _apologizing?_ ” 

“There is no apologizing for this,” Hanzo replies firmly, lowering his head. “I didn’t know you were here. I won’t interfere in your life. You can go on-“ 

“No, no, goddammit! You don’t get to decide that!” In a rush, Genji grabs two fistfuls of Hanzo’s black shirt and manages to lift him slightly off the ground, slamming him against the wall hard enough for his head to bounce off of it and a few chips of spackling to fall from the ceiling. “You can say whatever you fucking want, I’m not running away like you did!” 

He waits for the haul back, any sort of retaliation. They had brawled in their teens, bloodying each other’s noses a few times. But Hanzo doesn’t even shout back, he just keeps staring at their feet, as if waiting for another blow. Eyes blank. No fight left in him. 

Genji’s hands slacken, letting his brother slip to the ground, fingers still tangled in the stretched fabric of his shirt and his voice brittle. “…I’m not going anywhere, Hanzo.” He lets go, muscles twitching as he rubs the back of his neck. “We should sit down. I’m a guest, aren’t I? Where are your manners?” 

Hanzo doesn’t laugh, but he doesn’t expect him to. They sit on the sagging burgundy couch, elbows on their knees as they fasten their eyes to the grey carpet. Genji finds his words first. “Do you really have nothing to say to me?” 

Hanzo inhales deep, sounding wheezy. “Are you- well? Generally?” 

“Generally, yes,” Genji forces a half-smile. “I know I look rough, but it hasn’t been all bad. Modern medicine’s a hell of a thing.” 

“Indeed.” Hanzo exhales tightly, balling his hands into fists. “How did you end up here?” 

“I asked you first.” 

“There’s honestly nothing to it,” Hanzo shakes his head. “I came. I’ve worked wherever I can find it. Nothing more.” 

“For ten years?” 

“Yes, I swear.” Hanzo’s eye twitches faintly. “You were always more interesting.” 

Genji snorts and they’re quiet again. Hanzo makes a vague gesture before speaking. “What happened- after I left?” 

Genji seizes the invitation, knowing that second chances won’t be afforded. He keeps the censorship to a minimum, now positive there’s nothing those bastards pulled on him that they didn’t use on Hanzo ten times over. 

“I’m so sorry for how they treated you,” Hanzo replies after a lengthy pause, barely above a whisper. “I never thought they’d- I assumed they’d just let you carry on as you were- as much as you could.” 

“Bullshit. But if that’s what you told yourself, then alright.” 

They stall for quite some time, discussing a hundred shoulds and leaving a hundred more unspoken. Hanzo eventually returns to prodding, seeming so earnestly curious about Genji’s life that he has to give in. Skimming over the rougher years to avoid further downward spirals, he tells him about Angela’s lab, the Shambali, school, and Zenyatta, of course. Every flicker of interest in Hanzo’s eyes spurs him on, teasing him with hope. 

“You, living with monks? I don’t believe it.” 

“As you shouldn’t,” Genji manages a snicker, recrossing his legs as one falls asleep. “But it’s the truth, I have photo evidence if you need proof.” 

Hanzo smiles, but it’s sour and doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m glad you’ve managed to make some kind of life for yourself in spite of everything.” 

Genji’s lips tighten around his teeth. “You don’t need to make it sound like I turned into a monster.” 

Hanzo hums softly. “No, you’re right, that better applies to me.” 

“Oh my god-“ Genji forces a breath through his nose, massaging his temples with his thumbs. “Hanzo, knock it off. That shit isn’t going to help us move forward.” 

“Move forward?” Hanzo retorts, acid on his tongue. “I’ve taken everything from you- I could have _killed_ you, Genji. There is no ‘moving forward’ from that. The only thing I can offer you now is my absence- It seems to be working well so far.” 

“Punishing yourself is no favour to me,” Genji says, firm and controlled despite the emotions roiling underneath. He takes a moment to steady his voice. “If you don’t want a relationship with me- I’ll respect your decision. But I want you to know that I’ve accepted who I’ve become and I have forgiven you.” 

Hanzo’s head twitches up at that, eyes wide. “You can’t- you have no right!” 

“I have the only right! Hanzo-“ 

“No,” his brother snarls, the perfect image of a cornered animal. “You don’t get to come in here and play saint! I left you like _this_ and you come back for more, like a kicked dog? What’s wrong with you?” 

Genji grits his teeth and lets a stream of sharp, bitter words come out as a grumbling hiss of breath, balling his hands so tight he feels the stretch of it in his shoulders, then shakes them out. “You’re exactly- this is ridiculous. Is this what you want? To be a martyr for the rest of your life instead of just forgiving yourself?” 

Hanzo’s haughty expression and persistent silence don’t fool Genji for a second. He knows what it’s hiding. Remembers the impenetrable mute spells Hanzo frequently slipped into as a teen, made much more understandable after a taste of what being a Shimada really meant beyond the untouchability and bottomless funds. Power demanded unbroken perfection. Two decades on the blade’s edge had left scars in his brother, five decades of it had scraped their father hollow. 

But they had both taken the out their mother had left them. There was still a chance, however slim. 

An hour of waiting out the silence both impresses and exasperates Genji. He rubs his eyes, it had been around three when they arrived, and now it was well past dinnertime, the city dark and glimmering outside the thin curtains.

“Hanzo,” Genji reaches for him before he can hesitate. “I know I can’t force you to change your mind, but will you at least-“ 

He freezes when his hand lands on Hanzo’s knee. Beneath the denim is hard and distinctly inorganic. Hanzo was discharged within a few weeks, so it couldn’t be as old as his own amputation. He twists to try and catch his eye, so caught up in baser, protective emotions that the words feel punched out of him. “Anija, what happened?” 

Hanzo looks almost annoyed, answering in a low, detached tone. “I was working in another city a few years ago. There was a warehouse that didn’t much care for health and safety regulations. A shelf collapsed and a crate of machine parts landed on my legs.” 

“Both of them?” Genji balks as Hanzo nods, rubbing the other knee as if to indicate. His eyes flick automatically towards the door and the steep, crumbling stairs. “What do you do when you can’t wear your legs?” 

“Stay home.” Hanzo shrugs, appearing bemused. 

Genji presses, his fingers tightening on Hanzo’s leg. “Did you at least have a roommate or- anyone to help out?” 

“The hospital sent some people around until I recovered.” Hanzo shakes his head. “It’s of no concern now, it’s been three years.” 

The bottom drops out of Genji’s stomach. That his worst fear came so close to coming true- that Hanzo could have _died_ without them so much as speaking, or even seeing each other again. Was Hanzo even using his real name? Would he have found him in the John Doe cases like he had nightmares about? Would the Shimadas have locked him away in the family cemetery? 

More importantly- Hanzo seems so genuinely unbothered. As if nearly dying and recovering in absolute isolation was- “You’re such an idiot.” 

Genji pulls him into a hug without waiting, painfully tight and close enough to smell him, and god, it’s a weird thing to notice, sure, but he still smells like Hanzo. His big brother is alive and maybe definitely not okay, but he’s _here_ and that’s all he’d wanted. Tears well up, blurring his vision as he buries his face against Hanzo’s shoulder. 

Hanzo hugs him back, but Genji can nearly feel the disassociation in the looseness of his arms. Sensing that too-recognizable feeling of being a million miles away from yourself. He hangs onto him and weeps a while longer. He’s got no idea how to fix this, where to start, but he has to try. He’s going to try. 

They keep talking for a little while after Genji collects himself, but they’ve hit bottom, for their first night at least. Bidding goodbye is so awkward it’s physically painful. Genji has his pullover back on before he realizes something. “Give me your phone.” 

Hanzo falters, but Genji sticks his hand out. “You must have a phone for work, right?” 

Hanzo retreats after a moment, tentatively handing Genji an outdated cell phone. He types his number in, texts himself, and stiffly hands it back. “There. We can- we need to talk again. Soon. Okay?” 

Hanzo stares at his phone, looking so confused and tired that it ages him ten years. “Why do you want to?” 

Genji sighs from his bones, settling for one last fraternal shoulder-squeeze when Hanzo’s body language seems wary of further hugs. “Maybe I’m the idiot, but I want to believe there’s still hope for us. For you. I’ll- talk to you soon, okay? Promise.” 

Genji retreats into the night, passing young kids dressed to go clubbing. He trudges out of the ramshackle neighbourhood, stump grinding painfully in its socket and eyes unfocused, wearing a groove into the pavement until he reaches the monastery, checking his phone to make sure they’ll be getting up for morning prayers about now. Jyoti answers his knocks, waving him in and voicing their concern at his blank expression but Genji’s already gone, vibrating with every step. 

He finds Zen in his room, mirror in one hand and tongue sticking out slightly as he reapplies the dots on his forehead. “Oh, Genji, what a lovely surprise! You never answered my goodnight text, is everything-” 

“I found Hanzo.” 

The clay stick falls to the floor with a dull crack. “What?” 

“I found him yesterday, by accident, he’s okay- well, sort of, he’s got a job and a place to live and stuff, so that’s one up on me when I came here. We talked for a really long time and I kind of stress-vomited in a trashcan on the way here? Maybe that’s why I’m lightheaded- oh, I never got my sandwich! That explains the dry heaves-” 

“Okay,” Zenyatta interrupts coolly, catching hold of Genji’s hands and carefully guiding him to sit on the bed. “You’ve just been through quite a stressful experience, and I’m sure you still have a lot of adrenaline running through you. How about I make you a bagel, and when I get back, you can tell me everything?” 

Genji blows out a breath, feeling his legs tremble. “Two bagels?” 

“Two bagels.” Zenyatta pats his hands kindly and quickly wheels off, returning with two warm peanut butter bagels and a bottle of orange juice that Genji fairly inhales before telling Zenyatta every single detail, the younger man sitting beside him and encouraging him along. He ends up with his head in Zenyatta’s lap and a loving hand stroking through his hair. 

“It’s almost like he’s- forgotten how to do anything?” Genji mumbles, pulling his legs tighter in. “I just want to go back and get him and- fix everything, I guess. Dunno how.” 

“It’s not your job to fix him,” Zenyatta soothes, winding a green cowlick around his finger. “All you can do is love him and hold the space.” 

“I know, I know,” Genji’s eyes burn and he pushes his face into Zenyatta’s lavender shirt-clad stomach, ashamed of how small and pathetic his voice sounds. “But will that be enough? I don’t think- I’m not sure if-“ 

“He still loves you, Genji,” Zenyatta says swiftly, cradling Genji’s neck with one of those strong, strong hands. “If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have been angry, he would have been indifferent.” 

Genji laughs, humourless and coarse. “You sound so confident.” 

“I am, because I think I understand him a little,” Zenyatta hums, resuming rubbing gentle circles on Genji’s back. “I wanted to keep it to myself until you met him again, but as it seems to have truly been an accident, I can say more confidently that I’ve been where both of you are.” He chuckles momentarily. “Mondatta and I chafe under each other’s fretting. A part of him will always feel guilty, somehow responsible for my injuries, and a part of me will always feel the same way for his. But we’ve found our way, and so will you.” 

“But we’re nothing like-“ Genji hiccups, fingers twisting tight in the back of Zenyatta’s shirt. “I don’t know if that’s possible for us.” 

“As long as you’re both alive, it’s possible, of that I’m certain.” Zenyatta encourages Genji to sit up, deflated and rheumy-eyed as he is. He clasps his shoulder with one hand and tugs his jaw close with the other, sealing their lips in a sweet, damp kiss. They press their noses together afterwards and breathe each other in for a few moments. “I don’t know your brother, but I know you. I’m so glad you found him, mero maya. You’ve waited a long time.” 

Genji pushes his face against Zenyatta’s neck, shoulders shaking and leaning heavily. “Bluuuh, my head is spinning.” 

“You’re all worn out, you need some rest,” Zenyatta croons, coaxing him onto his back. “Do you have to work today?” 

“No, m’off,” Genji scrubs his face dry with one palm, half-sitting up when Zen puts his hands on his thigh for permission. “I can’t stay here. I’ve used up all my nuisance points for one day.” 

“You’re not a nuisance, dear one,” Zenyatta waits, expertly removing Genji’s prosthesis and setting it aside at his nod. He shepherds him towards the wall, pulling the covers back and drawing the blinds over the tall window behind them, shafts of yellow light sneaking out under the panels. They lay facing each other on the soft pillow, blankets up to their necks and Zenyatta’s hand skimming along Genji’s ribs and belly. 

“You have things to do,” Genji mumbles, his eyes shut and his mind screaming for sleep at the scent of a familiar bed. “Please, don’t stay here just because of me.” 

“There’s no place I’d rather be right now,” Zenyatta’s hand is on his chest now. “I’ll get my laptop out once you’re asleep, you’re nearly impossible to wake up.” 

“Thanks, it’s a skill.” Genji grins faintly. His eyes sliding open, finding honey-sweet amber ones drinking him in, so soft and open that it nearly breaks him. Zenyatta presses close, shifting up to kiss his forehead and take him in his arms. Genji holds him tight and asks for enough strength to keep him from burdening this wonderful, beautiful man too often. 

Slick, chilly spring turns hot again and Genji tap-dances along the line of mending an extremely broken fence and giving Hanzo appropriate space. Initially they only meet at Hanzo’s work, Genji free to loiter around so long as he buys something. Bit by bit, Hanzo allows visits to his sad little apartment, the TV distracting them when conversation can’t be sustained. 

“Are these yours?” Genji flips through the sketchbook he’d tugged out from the worn computer desk’s keyboard tray, pages heavy with ink and smudged pencil. “Holy shit, these are so good!” 

“Don’t go through other people’s things!” Hanzo tucks the bowl of chips under his arm and snatches the book out of Genji’s hands. “It’s just a way to keep myself busy, nothing more.” 

“Sorry, was that your porn one? I didn’t see anything.” 

“I don’t have a ‘porn one,’ I’m not sixteen,” Hanzo snorts and takes his seat on the couch, some tropey mystery show pulled up for their Sunday evening viewing pleasure. 

“Too bad, you could make mad cash,” Genji flops down beside him, leaning in with a smirk. “Can you draw me a Kyukon? For old times’ sake?” 

Hanzo’s eyebrow twitches. “Of course not.” 

Genji pouts, watching the title cards play. “What about Piccolo?” 

He counts Hanzo’s too-genuine exasperated growl as a win. 

Another time, he actually gets to see Hanzo’s bedroom when Hanzo goes to change shirts after work, complaining of an incident involving a high shelf and a broken bottle of mayonnaise. It’s as functional and plain as the rest, bed made and walls blank, though there is a small shelf of beat-up paperbacks and one framed photo. From their vacation to the Pacific coast, when they’d caught a properly sunny day and spent it at the beach. Their mother in her red bathing suit, green twinned dragon sleeve on full display as she kneels behind her two small sons, all three smiling wide and covered in sand and salt. 

“Oh my god, I’m so glad you kept this!” Genji crows, snatching it up. “I couldn’t find it when I left. Geez, Kaa-san was the cutest, look at those dimples.” 

“Sorry to have stolen it from you,” Hanzo murmurs, tenuous sentimentality in his voice as he tugs on a clean navy blue t-shirt. Genji’s eyes are still tracing over their toothy grins, their mother’s hair hanging long and wet like seaweed over one shoulder, the starfish clutched in their childish deathgrips. “I wanted a small memento. Too bad our father isn’t in it.” 

“He kinda is, you can see his thumb in the corner,” Genji points it out, scrounging a chuckle from both of them. “I can scan you the ones I have if you want, I grabbed all the albums.” 

Hanzo’s eyes go wide. “All of them?” 

Genji nods. “Put ‘em all in my backpack. Good thing nobody ever stole it, I would have gone straight up homicidal.” His tongue probes the inside of his cheek, rubbing a tiny sharp edge where a tooth has chipped. “Couldn’t just leave them there, they’d have ended up in the trash.” 

“Most likely.” Hanzo retreats to his closet, pointlessly rooting around. “Thank you- for having more foresight than I did.” 

“As usual, but you’re welcome.” 

A snort, a shake of the head, and the days turn on. The deli is close enough to his usual haunts that Genji starts bringing his friends around, especially after the fall semester kicks off. 

He tries not to be too obvious in encouraging the tenuous bonds Hanzo forms with them. But having already put together that Hanzo only willingly spends time with him and Amélie, it’s really hard not to bounce out of his seat every time Hanzo wordlessly brings Hana a refilled macchiato during their late study sessions, lets Lena show him a gallery’s worth of photos from her last overseas work trip with Emily and Winston, or actually starts a conversation with Satya without Genji prompting either of them. The afternoon he meets Bastion and Angela at the shop and finds Hanzo carefully signing Bastion’s order back to him just about kills him. 

Everything’s great until Genji lets it slip that they all already know about the accident. Hanzo manages to be subdued yet polite, but Genji still spends too much time assuring the group that his brother doesn’t mean to be so standoffish before finally texting Hanzo a picture of a bridge and telling him get over it. 

It helps that Jesse starts coming around the shop more often. Genji’s more than content to watch the cowboy work that persistent, oddly wholesome charm on his grouchy brother. The lapses in Hanzo’s facial control are worth the price of a few club sandwiches and coffees. McCree even starts dropping by without him, and showing up to get-togethers mentioning that he invited Hanzo, but he had to work. Genji feels a weight fall off him knowing that Hanzo has things to look forward to, even if it’s just banal conversations and invitations to parties he never attends. 

He doesn’t think anything else of it until he brings Angela and Jesse around one Friday afternoon. They snag a window booth while Jesse talks Hanzo’s ear off, slowing down his already overly complicated order. Genji only looks away from Angela’s detailed, animated grievances about the medical students she’s supervising when he hears a metallic crash. 

McCree’s left hand hangs mid-gesture in the air, having gotten so into whatever he was telling Hanzo that he backhanded his large iced coffee across the counter, colliding with the edge of the chip rack and sending it teetering sadly and loudly to the floor, small compostable chip bags spilling everywhere. “Well, shit.” 

A barely suppressed snort turns into hoarse, amused laughter, muffled against the back of a plastic-covered hand. “Would you like some paper towels? And maybe a refill?” 

“Ah, that’d be just peachy,” McCree chuckles, slightly sheepish amidst the other customers’ stares as he stoops to right the metal stand and reassemble the snacks. 

Genji would normally call out some teasing remark, but his eyes latch onto Hanzo’s face as he throws out his gloves and heads for the sink. Just a brief glimpse, but that smile- That blooming, secret smile that considerably softens his severe features, the mirth in his shining eyes that’s sort of amused and far away at the same time- 

“Genji? Did you see a ghost or something?” 

He snaps back to find Angela looking at him quizzically and wipes the burgeoning grin off his face, bouncing one leg. “Oh, no, just thought of something. That’s all. What were you saying?” 

She quirks her lips in knowing amusement, methodically picking burned crumbs off her bagel. “What are you up to this time?” 

“Me, up to something? I don’t know what ever gave you that impression,” Genji props his elbows on the table and rests his chin on interlocked fingers. “I am the very picture of innocence. Now, regale me with more tales of woe.” 

She doesn’t believe him one bit, but lets him off the hook when McCree finally joins them with a fresh drink and a half-hidden grin. Genji says nothing. He’s a patient man, he can wait. 

Until the next time he stops in near the end of Hanzo’s evening shift, attempting to finish his reading at a corner table until it’s time to walk his brother home in the shivering November air. Hanzo nearly chokes on his tea at the suggestion. “Come on, it’s so obvious! You’re totally his type.” 

“His type?” Hanzo drawls, plastic straw between his teeth. “What, does he normally look at actors in the black and white parts of antidepressant commercials and think ‘hot?’” 

“ _Jesus,_ Hanzo,” Genji sighs and elbows him hard, almost making him stumble and dodging his swipe back. “If he’s not into you, why is he at your counter every goddamn day, hm?” 

“It’s on his way to work.” 

“He works and lives across town.” A lengthy pause, Hanzo keeping his head turned just enough to stare into the darkened store windows. “You like him too, don’t you?” 

“That’s irrelevant,” Hanzo’s words push steam into the air, the tips of his ears pink. “If you’re wrong, I’ll make a fool of myself. If you’re right- I don’t want to set him up for disappointment. He seems like a good man with much to offer- and besides, it would just make things awkward amongst your friends.” 

The younger Shimada studies the resigned look in his brother’s eyes and clicks his tongue, leaning into his personal space. “Remember our talk about letting people make their own decisions? If Jesse-“ 

“Genji. Enough.” 

He backs off and they mumble their goodnights at Hanzo’s door. Finals loom on the horizon and Genji relishes the brief reprieve of an unscheduled day off, stomping on crunchy, frost-broken leaves on the way to McCree’s shophouse apartment, throwing his hands in the air after clambering the exterior metal stairs. “Guess who hasn’t had to take pain meds for an entire week?” 

“Hey, good for you!” McCree grins, looking somewhat scruffy in an old red flannel shirt and torn jeans, hair tied back with a rubber band as he mixes some dough in a big orange bowl. “That’s your record, isn’t it?” 

“Sure is! I am getting so good at this cripple thing,” Genji beams and opens the fridge. “On a related note, guess who can raid your liquor supply without landing himself in the hospital?” 

“Friggin’ mooch,” Jesse tries to push the door shut with his foot, but Genji resists, cracking open a beer and taking a satisfying swig. “This ain’t an open bar, you know. Y’better replace whatever you drink.” 

“Oh, I’ve got a much better payment in mind.”

“Yeah, what’s that?” 

“Everything I know about Hanzo,” Genji folds his arms atop the refrigerator door, grinning gleefully as McCree’s metal hand tightens, scraping audibly against the plastic bowl. “Within reason.” 

Jesse laughs doubtfully after a pause, shaking his head. “You think you’re real smart, don’t ya?” 

“Damn right I do,” Genji kicks the door shut and leans faux-casually against the fridge. “I’ll even let you test your pick-up lines on me for the price of a second beer. Be warned, I’m known to be a harsh critic.” 

Jesse’ chuckles fades out as he sets the bowl down and flours the counter, yanking the dough out in one goopy hunk and starting to knead it. “You sure this is a good idea? Not to sound whatever, but I think he’s a little outta my league.” 

Genji smiles around another swig of the dark, malty liquid. Jesse was content to wait out his underwhelming, hostile ass just to acquire another drinking buddy and recipe tester. If he could be that patient with Hanzo- even if it was just long enough to make him laugh like that once or twice more, to give him a moment of the bliss he shares with Zenyatta every day –“Trust me, it’s the best possible idea.” 

*** 

The snow has come early this year, light and crunchy with ice. Hanzo relieves the night shift cashier- a young student who looks fairly dead on their feet as they stumble outside –and slips on his apron. The shop is small but the front is all glass, making it seem less cramped. The city outside is still dark and dotted with streetlights and neon signs, blurred by the twinkling green and red fairy lights strung up in their windows. The morning rush won’t be for another hour, so he attempts to scrub the semi-solid layer of salt, sand, and winter grime from the beige linoleum. 

The speakers buzz overhead, tuned to some playlist that appeals to their regulars and thankfully isn’t too trite or repetitive. Hanzo finds himself reflexively singing along to some familiar song he doesn’t know the name of, lost in the thoughtless push and pull of the mop. 

“Damn, you’ve got a nice voice.” 

Hanzo doesn’t drop the handle like an idiot, but it’s a near thing. Silently scolding himself for not hearing the door, he slowly turns around. “What brings you here so early?” 

“I’m on kennel duty this mornin’,” McCree smiles sweetly, looking much, much too handsome in snug blue jeans and a padded brown leather jacket. He slips his phone from his pocket while Hanzo quickly washes his hands. “Lookit this little cutie I got to work on yesterday- he was a real pain to clip, but he turned out alright.” 

Hanzo has to hold back a gasp at a photo of the sweetest, fluffiest copper-coloured husky puppy he’s ever seen. “Oh, he’s beautiful. You do outstanding work.” 

“Aw, thanks,” Jesse chuckles, so rich and warm that Hanzo forces his focus back to stuffing pre-cooked food into some pita bread. “Pups and small ones are harder to get even, big ones you can just kinda lay on to get ‘em to hold still. Cats are like little weasels, but the nice ones get all cuddly on ya afterwards.” 

“Still easier than most of my customers,” Hanzo chuckles, turning to briefly press the double-bacon, double-egg, half-cheese, extra sauce wrap into the grill. “I’m surprised you’re not full-time there.” 

“I’ll be happy to put in the hours, if the owner stops drinking eleven a.m. mojitos long enough to clue in,” Jesse snorts and shrugs. “Till then, it’s weekend security gigs for me.” 

“I know the feeling,” Hanzo nods grimly, quickly bundling the wrap in paper and pouring coffee from the same pot he’d started for himself, with much less sugar and half the cream. “The only reason I get enough hours here is because nearly everyone else that was hired kept showing up high.” 

Jesse laughs, teeth showing, and leans on the end of the counter. “Nah, I’m sure there’s more to it than that. You seem like the responsible sort, and you provide that real A-plus service.” 

Hanzo scoffs, ringing him up and tossing a few of the half-baked cookies into Jesse’s bag, as he usually does when no one else is around. “You think so?” 

“Sure do,” Jesse grins, a charming glint in his big brown eyes as he takes his change and reaches for the steaming drink. “Hell, I haven’t had to tell ya my order for over a month.” 

A light goes on in Hanzo’s head with a nearly-audible click, a traitorous burn starting in his cheeks. Jesse takes his moment as an opportunity to brush their fingers together. “Don’t suppose a hard-workin’ man such as yourself would be free tonight?” 

Hanzo’s shock easily loses the fight to his stubborn refusal to be outmaneuvered. Collecting himself and keeping Genji’s words in mind, he sets his shoulders back in a way that stretches his shirt across his chest, tilting his chin up and putting on a rusted, knowing smile. “That would depend entirely on where you plan to take me.” 

Jesse McCree honest and truly lights up at that, looking eager and cute in a way Hanzo didn’t previously know was possible for men their age. “Heh, shoot, I didn’t think that far. Where would you like to go, darlin’?” 

*** 

**GS:** Did you kiss him :D?  
**GS:** Hanzo hellooooo  
**GS:** I know you’re not at work (¬_¬)  
**GS:** Come onnnnnnnnnnnnn  
**GS:** You can’t just keep me in suspense!! ノಠ_ಠノ  
**GS:** Wait are you at his place  
**GS:** Sex on the first date? Classy (^^)ｂ 

**HS:** Genji ffs I’m at the library. 

**GS:** Lol knew that would work  
**GS:** Wait like the regular library?  
**GS:** Are you still there? 

**HS:** As opposed to the irregular library? Yes, I’m just leaving. 

**GS:** K wait up 

Hanzo shakes his head, slipping in his earbuds and pulling his scarf tighter against the light, whipping snow. He decides to shuffle to the terminal to stay warm rather than freeze at the bus stop. He walks long enough to lose himself in thought, listening to an album Lúcio had recommended to him, before a pair of arms loop around his neck and swing the body they’re attached to around him in a jubilant circle. 

“Agh, Genji! What the hell?” Hanzo barks, shoving his brother away and attracting the stares of a few passerby. 

Genji bounces back on his heels, a grin splitting his cheeks and his hair mussed by the wind. “Tell me how it went! I’ve been dying to know!” 

Hanzo shrugs. “It wasn’t much different than any other time we’ve spent together.” 

Genji whines, leaning heavily onto his arm. “Don’t toy with my emotions! At least tell me where you went!” 

“To the lights display,” Hanzo harshly shakes his brother off. “Then for shawarma. It was- very nice.” 

“Did you kiss him?” 

“On the cheek,” Hanzo’s lips briefly curve into a sly smirk, glancing at Genji sideways. “You have to leave them wanting more.” 

“Oh, you dog, you!” Genji sneers back, bumping shoulders and blowing on his gloved fingers. “So I was right, then? Say it, say the words.” 

“We’ve only gone out once, it’s nothing,” Hanzo rolls his eyes, still smiling before chewing on a corner of his lip. “Ah, he did bring me roses, though, which was- interesting, but thoughtful. Am I supposed to bring him flowers next time? Does he even like flowers?” 

“Oh my god,” Genji’s voice nearly cracks and he squeezes his arms tightly around Hanzo’s shoulders. “Oh my god, you’re going on dates and asking me for advice and everything! This is _amazing._ I’m so proud of you, anija!” 

Hanzo cringes at him, his eyebrows arched and his stiffness at Genji’s touch poorly concealed. “Why are you like this?” 

“Let me be excited for you two,” Genji smacks him on the arm and steps back. “Where you off to now?” 

“Home for lunch before work,” Hanzo glances at him cautiously. “Do you want to join me? You’ve been looking thin.” 

“I always want free food, you know that,” Genji grins and then claps his hands together. “Oh, that’s what you should do! Bring McCree lunch at work one day, that’ll net you at least fifty romance points. Enough to seal the deal!” 

And there, in the line of Hanzo’s restrained smile and incredulous laugh, Genji catches another glimpse of the big brother he followed through their parents’ gardens, the streets of Hanamura, and now halfway across the world. He knew he remembered him right. He knows they’ll be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya'll knew that Dragons parallel was coming, ayyy  
> It is super weird to go from happy, adjusted, married Hanzo in the last part to right back at the beginning (a year before Crush right at the close there) when he was all kinds of Not Well. At least we know how it gets better!  
> That argument in Hanzo's apartment marks the only time the brothers lay hands on each other in anger as adults btw, Genji feels really guilty for it later but without those ten years of healing it could have been So Much Worse  
> This goes without saying but Amelie didn't shoot Mondatta in this AU, she has a tragic backstory to match Hanzo's but it thankfully doesn't involve assassination attempts. She is really great at self-defense though  
> Thank you so much for reading, commenting, and kudos-ing! I really hope you enjoyed this little blast from the past, it was so fun to fill in details and write from Genji's POV. Stay tuned ^^!  
> Also P.S. 'When He Sees Me' is my song for Jesse and Hanzo at this stage of their relationship and I make no apologies for that (Kimiko Glenn or Sara Bareilles version, your choice)


End file.
